


Resurrection Men

by ThisThatAndTheOther



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Anatomy, Body snatching, Dissection, Gaslighting, Late 19th Century Medicine, Like really slow, M/M, Slow Burn, Someone Help Will Graham, murder tableaux
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisThatAndTheOther/pseuds/ThisThatAndTheOther
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Body snatching in the name of science isn't new, but using the bodies of the living certainly is. A new killer has set up practice in late 19th century Baltimore, and he's snaring a trap for Will with the anatomised bodies he leaves behind. </p><p>An anatomical fantasy, where the rules of historical fiction get a little bent to retell Will and Hannibal's first meeting. Repost of a fic that was deleted to account for heavy revisions. See author's note within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! If the title of this fic sounds familiar to you, you're right. I was about 4 chapters deep before I had some health problems. Everything went tits up, including my plans for the fic. I had planned the skeleton of the fic, but now that I'm better I don't really understand what I was trying to do with it... so I deleted it. I'm reposting it, with HEAVY (plot altering) revisions. I apologise to those users who were following the fic. I can't thank you enough for your kudos and comments, and I mean no disrespect in deleting these along with the fic. I hope you guys find this again and you enjoy the redo.
> 
> For new readers, this is what I'm calling anatomical fantasy, as it's an AU look set in 19th century Baltimore set heavily around the newly emerging discipline of anatomy. The idea sprung from some reading I was doing about the practice of stealing bodies from graves to supply cadavers for dissections, as well as my passing knowledge of the Burke and Hare trials. "A Traffic of Dead Bodies" is a fascinating read about the history of body snatching in the name of science, something that was rampant in the 19th century when anatomists strived for knowledge despite having little to no access to "legally" obtained cadavers. (Back then legal only meant that the dead was disenfranchised in some way - poor, black, or criminals)
> 
> The story is set in the 1890s, which means people's positions, the scope of their responsibilities, and the plot points have been tweaked from the original. In the interest of keeping the characters more or less the same, sex and race haven't been changed.

No matter how many times it happened, an ovation always surprised Will once a lecture was over. Not to suggest he didn’t believe in his work or that he thought what he had to say was worthless. He knew that his contributions – though small – had their value.

No, it was that their deliberate praise left his skin feeling a little too hot, too small, too puckered at the seams. Or perhaps it was just that the auditorium was warmed by too many bodies sharing each other’s expired breath.

He chose to ignore the applause.

Will swallowed against the dry grit of his throat and reached for the glass of water sitting at his podium. Another lecture down; another minute closer to escaping to his boarding house room, which meant that he was another day closer to leaving Baltimore altogether. Images of the scurried retreat of a startled crab on the surf came unbidden.

His creaky house back in Wolf Trap was no hole within the sand, however, so he turned his focus on his dogs and how their wet snouts and wagging tails waited for him.

The grey faced men – the doctors, the professors, and the general academics that made up his audience – sat before him, still clapping as he drank. As their applause continued, it reverberated strangely, making his ear canal spiral and funnel the sounds so their hands beat out of time with the noise.

It was dizzying, causing the slight ache at his temples threaten something fiercer – and soon. Despite the cool water, his throat still felt tight for having spoken uninterrupted while projecting so those at the back could hear. 

He began to collect his papers, shoving them into his satchel with little care of creases or tears. No sooner were they secured than he removed himself and his hat entirely from the podium and headed towards the door.

He escaped the oppressive din for the quiet of the hallway. It still had the prevailing smell of academia hanging in the air, but it was lighter. Though fusty, it was one Will was familiar with and he could breathe easy.

From the hallway through the wood of the door, Will heard the clapping falter until it sputtered out completely. The well of the men’s good will finally ran dry. Their confusion was muted by the door, but it was obvious they were stunned that he left without acknowledgement – that he dared to let the accolades of such esteemed men go unthanked.

Good, Will thought, and then reconsidered on account of his mood. Had he stayed, he would have been forced into handshake after handshake, attempting polite conversations and discussions that fit him worse than his well-worn frock coat.

He pulled at his tie, loosening so as not to undo it but to give himself just enough room to breathe.

“You’ve left them wanting.”

The grip on his satchel tightened involuntarily as he turned his head so quickly it twinged the chords of his neck, where heat trickled down the twisted muscle.

A familiar man wearing slate grey trousers and a silver-on-black vest, topped with a black puff tie, was standing to his right. The long burgundy frock drew long lines down the length of his body. He looked in the highest fashion compared to Will’s ordinary olive tweed vest, brown striped trousers that still bore the evidence of his dogs, and the now loosened four-in-hand tie.

The man was an imposing pillar in the middle of the hallway, but there was evidence of restraint. The subtle set of his shoulders, the narrow stance of his legs, the open and bright eyes attempting to make contact. Will could tell that he wanted something, but that the man knew that his request was to be met with resistance. Was Will that obvious?

The man took a step forward as he pulled off his kid glove and offered his hand.

“Jack Crawford, I believe we met last year at the University of Virginia.”

After a brief juggle of his hat and satchel they shook. Will let the frame of his glasses censor his vision, so the metal conveniently blocked Jack’s searching eyes.

“For Timothy Gaskell’s lecture, _The Importance of the Science of Anatomy_. Yes, I remember.”

Jack smiled and tilted his head to the side.

“Did you hear about his passing?”

Will frowned, “I should hope. I was at his funeral.”

An accident of fate allowed Gaskell to die the same week Will had been scheduled to deliver his talks at the University of Maryland, otherwise Will would have never made the trip. The funeral was yesterday. It was a dry, Anglican affair and Will left as soon as he could without causing scandal, with brief but sincere condolences to Mrs. Gaskell.

In the room he just vacated the muffled sounds of a crowd readying to leave grew in volume. Will shifted on his feet, painfully aware that it would only be a moment before the old men would tire of discussing his insolence in the auditorium and continue their criticisms elsewhere. He didn’t want to be still blocking the doorway when they went about finding that elsewhere.

Jack sensed his urgency and smiled. He gestured down the hall with his hat, “Shall we?”

They walked the long corridor, heels clipping sharply against the stone.

Will thought back to Dr. Gaskell and his funeral. He didn’t remember the conspicuous figure Jack cut. “I didn’t see you there – at the funeral.”

“I sent flowers. Work keeps me busy, Dr. Graham. May I call you William or Will?”

Will shrugged. Whatever his personal preference, Jack would take his own liberties, “And what is it that you do again, Mr. Crawford?”

“Please, call me Jack. I’ve been given the task of directing the Bureau of Investigation.”

Will grimaced – the expression an unwitting thing, “Sounds bureaucratic.” He didn't care that his tone was airing on petulance.

Jack huffed though he had probably heard –and already grown tired – of that one before. Neither did he seem to take offence to Will's manner. So whatever it was that brought Jack to him, Will realised, was something important.

“It can be. It can also be a challenge.”

Will sighed. At this rate they’d be exchanging vacuous pleasantries forever, “This isn’t just an annual rekindling of acquaintanceship, is it Jack?”

Jack didn’t look surprised to be caught. In fact he seemed relieved, “I’m afraid it isn’t.”

They had reached the doors for the stairway, which Jack held open for Will. The gesture forced Will in the lead with Jack trailing him down the stairs. For every step Will took, Jack followed. Each placement of Jack’s polished shoe was so close behind his own, chasing him, devouring the steps between them. The proximity caused the small hairs at his neck to stand straight. The fact that he couldn’t see Jack made it feel like he took up the entire space of the stairwell.

“I come to you asking for a favour. I need your special skill set,” His voice was even, though they were both descending at a decent clip. His voice resounded low in the small space.

Will didn’t like the sound of the word ‘favour’. “For what, exactly?”

“There’s been an incident – with Dr. Gaskell.”

Will stopped on the landing between floors and looked at Jack with incredulity, “Dr. Gaskell? You may not have been at the funeral, but I was and I can assure you that he was quite dead.”

Jack shook his head slowly, “I’m not disputing that.”

Will frowned and let his silence speak for the confusion he felt.

“Dr. Gaskell’s grave has been desecrated.”

Unfortunate but not terribly unexpected, though Will was surprised that the Gaskells hadn’t thought to invest in a mortsafe. “By whom, protesters? Or was it robbers?”

To Will’s knowledge, the doctor had no known personal enemies, but the work that he did at the University hadn’t made him any friends in Baltimore – particularly for his use of cadavers in his lessons. Still, that someone took the time to vandalise his grave was unlikely.

The economy of dead bodies, however, was always in a deficit. That was something that Gaskell himself was keenly aware of when he was still able to be aware of anything at all. Even though it was legal to use the bodies of prisoners and the indigent for study, not nearly enough prisoners or poor were dying fast enough for the insatiable medical field. What they lacked in permissible bodies, they found in those corpses by enterprising ressurectionists. Body snatchers. Those men morally corrupt enough to dig up the freshly deceased and sell their quarry to desperate anatomists and lecturers.  Gaskell had more than likely hired several during his career.

Ironic then, but Will wouldn’t consider it unfair. Quid pro quo, after all. Gaskell finally paid the proper price for purchasing corpses to pad out his classes. But why this was now the concern of the Bureau of Investigation, Will couldn’t guess. They should leave it to the Baltimore police.

Jack shook his head again, pulling Will from his thoughts, “Gaskell wasn’t precisely stolen, Will. Come, examine the grave and tell me what you can see.”

For a moment, Will nearly said yes just to appease Jack’s hopeful desperation. The undercurrent of excitement in the stream of Jack’s words – that Will might just do that – was as compelling as if it were his own. Jack could do with a break, and just a little look could be all that he needed. _It would be easy._

That was a current of thought that Will didn’t particularly want to follow, for they were sure to lead him to treacherous waters.

“I—I don’t think that’s a good idea for anyone involved, Jack.”

“I know,” Jack was firm but composed, hands out like he was calming a spooked horse. Will supposed, all things considered, he wasn't far off, “I know what happened, and I won’t let it happen again. Please. I’m asking only for one evening of your time.”

On second thought, that current was more of an undertow. Before Will knew it, he was nodding.

“Fine. One evening.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bureau of Investigation (BOI) was actually founded in 1908, several years after the setting of this story. But I figured I was already taking so many liberties that I might as well take this one too. 
> 
> A mortsafe was used by the wealthy to protect their graves from disinterment. They ranged in style but most were iron cages fitted over the plot, making it impossible for grave robbers or body snatchers to steal any buried possessions or corpses.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise now I'm taking the same kind of liberties with history that Murdoch Mysteries does... Not sure if a good or bad thing.

Will knew that Jack’s gracious, almost fatherly demeanor wouldn’t last long. He just thought it would last a little bit longer than the moment Will agreed to help. As if he were a sorcerer, Will had stumbled upon the magic words. Yes was all he needed to say to sweep away the pleasantries. Like a spell lifted, Jack’s easy going charm was replaced with an anxious urgency, and his prettied request was now a demand – and Jack expected obedience.

Will lifted his satchel, “I’ll put this back in my office first.”

“No,” Jack put on his hat, “We’ve already wasted enough time. Let’s go – now.” He pressed through the main entrance without looking back, certain that Will would follow; his conviction absolute. And he was right, Will would, but not before he let a sigh escape his pursed lips.

He slipped through the doors on their closing arc and shuddered when he stepped out into the late afternoon. The cool autumn breeze nipped at his cheeks before it turned south to chase down his loose collar and up the cuffs of his jacket, tracing the exposed skin of his neck and the underbelly of his wrists. His skin, overheated by the warmth of the auditorium, was hypersensitive to the chill. Will hastened to tighten the knot of his tie, fumbling for a moment with his satchel. 

As he did, he surveyed the street below. From atop the marble steps he could see that the street was busy with horse-drawn cabs and pedestrians. It was a quiet crowd, where conversations flowed through whispers.

Jack was already standing to the side of a cab parked in the dirt of the street, and he looked back to Will, gesturing to the driver who was holding the door open. There was no point in delaying any longer, but Will didn’t rush his descent. The idea of sharing the cramped space of the cab with Jack wasn’t on his list of ways of spending the dying day.

Will released a breath of relief when he ducked into the cab. It only had one cushion, which Jack and he would have to share sitting side-by-side. Proximity in close quarters was never pleasant for Will, but at least this arrangement – where they both had to face toward the front of the cab in the direction of their travel – removed the opportunity for eye contact.

A crack of a whip was the only warning they received before the cab shuttered and started crunching over the cobblestones. Horseshoes struck stone in a measured gait as Will looked out the window to watch as they pulled away from the College Building.

“My team is already at Saint Paul’s,” Jack said. He too was turned towards his window, seemingly taken by the scenery at his window. “We have the entire cemetery cordoned off for the remainder of the evening. I’ve heard that you prefer privacy when you…”

Will interrupted before Jack could give words to what he does. He rather not hear his opinion, “The entire cemetery? Just how much jurisdiction does this Bureau have?”

Will could feel the larger man shrug, their shoulders brushing, “Sometimes enough. Most often not enough. We’re a young department, but there’s potential to grow formidable within the United States. For now, it’s enough to have Saint Paul’s barricaded for the next sixteen hours.”

Will hummed, “Sixteen hours at the city’s primary cemetery,” Will turned his head from the window and looked at Jack’s knee covered in fine wool, “What exactly is waiting for me there, Jack?”

“Something you nor I have ever seen before,” Jack said.

Will opened his mouth to comment on the melodrama of Jack’s line, but the carriage lurched to a stop. Soon after, Jack’s door was opened to reveal that they had arrived at the cemetery’s north gate. What should have been a short walk was an even shorter ride.

True to Jack’s word, the cemetery looked properly guarded. A small group of uniformed police officers stood at the gate. At Jack’s exit of the cab, they took off their helmets.

“Sir,” they chorused as both Jack and Will passed through the blockade they had made.

The cemetery, like most others, was quiet, and it was only the sound of gravel crunching underfoot that accompanied their navigation of the path. It was the same route that he had taken at the funeral.

Further on, where Will knew Gaskell’s grave lay, was a small cluster of people. The only other people in the cemetery. They were surrounded by lamps despite the oranging sky still bright above them. Dusk was arriving rapidly, however, and these lamps were already lit in the preparation of the darkness that would soon descend.

As they got closer to the grave Will saw the team that Jack spoke of in the cab. They stood out from the police officers surveilling the area. Both men were stripped to their vests with their shirtsleeves rolled up, the colouring of their green and brown suits complementing each other. The woman wore a simple blouse and a black twill bustle skirt, which ploomed around her where she crouched.

They didn’t notice their arrival, too invested as they were in their own work to notice, voices fluttering quick and light as they spoke – or bickered, more like. Though he had never met any of them, they were each familiar to him. He knew of their presence within the academic community, and their names were often found in the articles he read by lamplight back in Wolf Trap. He hadn’t realised they too were sought after by the Bureau. Like the creation of the organisation, its recruitment was obscured by secrecy.

They surrounded the fresh grave of Dr. Gaskell, made even fresher by its exhumation. Jack hadn’t exactly lied when he spoke earlier, but now Will understood all of the smoke and mirrors. This wasn’t a simple disinterment, a coffin cracked open to sneak from stiff fingers valuable gold rings. What Will stood before was an ostentatious turning out of the coffin’s contents. A razing of the deceased. What he saw would have been hard to summarize in a university hallway.

How would you describe the anemic naked body of Gaskell as it sat propped up on his modest tombstone. The skin of his chest had been peeled apart. The individual bones of his rib cage splintered and pried outwards to reveal an empty red crater. His body folded ungainly due to the lack of mass, shoulders hunched forwards and his arms hanging like tassels to the pleats of fat at his abdomen. The stage had been set, but the actors weren’t where they were supposed to be.

Below him on the soil of his grave sat his entire respiratory system. Glossy pink from the tip of its tongue to the basin of its lungs. A handsome fireplace bellows was shoved into the hole of the trachea. The organs stood out against the dark earth, a delicate gift of flesh atop a pillow of soil.

But for whom Will wondered and couldn’t answer. This was something wholly new.

Beside him Jack stood silently. He only watched, appraising the way Will took in the display.

“Think it could be the Ripper?” The curly, dark haired man of the group asked suddenly from where he was crouched before the body, his face alarmingly close to fitting inside the empty chest cavity.

When neither of his companions answered, he looked up to where they were crouched over the organs. They exchanged a coded expression, “What?”

The blonde one rolled his eyes as he ran a finger over the lungs, “Don’t be ridiculous. Ignoring the fact that there’s no way to prove he ever left England for the shores of _Baltimore_ of all places—“

“It could be an imitator,” the man was quick to interrupt, gesticulating in the space between them, “Someone obsessed with murder and surgery.”

Will scoffed. Three heads turned in his direction simultaneously, their eyes bouncing once to Jack where the man stood next to him before returning to Will.

“The motive’s all wrong,” Will said, keeping his eyes pinned to the dead body of the man he once knew. There was no real feeling of loss. Only the unease of seeing him stripped bare and cut open. It was an inhuman indignity that left Will unnerved and aware of his own corporeality. “Jack the Ripper whipped himself into a frenzy over those prostitutes. He ripped Mary Kelly to pieces. The organs torn from her body and her flesh mutilated. He was frothing at the mouth by the end of his spree.”

The dark haired one opened his mouth to object at this stranger's critique of his suggestion, his belligerence a telegraphed punch in the ring. Jack saw it and, assuming the role of referee, signaled the end of the round before it ever started.

Stepping forward, he gestured to Will, “Meet Will Graham, a visiting fellow from the University of Virginia. Will Graham – Drs. Brian Zeller, Jimmy Price, and Beverly Katz.”

Will nodded once and shoved his hands into his pockets. That was the extent of pleasantries he was willing to exchange. They couldn't shake his hands if they were hidden by cloth.

“Disregarding for the moment that Gaskell wasn’t a poor prostitute, this—“ one hand escaped to sweep across the scene, “ _this_ takes preparation, precision, and skill. The organs haven’t been ripped. They’ve been lovingly removed and displayed for us. The rest of the body is fully intact. There’s no way this was the add-on to the Ripper’s climatic finish.”

Their curiosity and Zeller’s resentment was a tangible flood of feelings. Beside him Jack loomed a silent and composed custodian of his team.

Will pressed his eyes shut to ignore the sensation of their emotions washing over him. As he escaped the scene before him, another played out behind his closed lids. He remembered the crime scene photographs of the Kelly death. Her legs spread to reveal a meaty torso, her white nightie and bedclothes saturated with blood. Her mutilated face turned towards her bedside table, where strips of skin sat in a sticky pile.

He coughed against the sudden taste copper at his throat his mind produced and took a deep breath of the park’s clean air, tainted only by the mild smell of decay from Gaskell’s improperly preserved body. Another curiosity to add to the missing mortsafe. Gaskell should have had enough money to buy a competent mortician.

Will grimaced. Poor embalming was the least of Gaskell’s misfortunes in death.

Being the latest and sole male victim of Jack the Ripper, however, was not one of them, “Why would the Ripper’s ways change the minute he reaches colonial soil? A mad dog can’t change his ways. The Ripper isn’t capable of this.”

“Alright, Will,” Jack said, once again returning to a stalwart of calm. Without moving, his presence spilled out into the space they shared, and Will forgot he was outside at all, hemmed in by the walls of Jack’s attention, “We know it’s not the Ripper. But who could it be?”

Jack’s expectations had a density all to their own, not unlike a weight pulling at his coattails. Hard to ignore. Will’s molars creaked under the pressure of his jaw as he ground his teeth together. Despite what Jack thought him capable, at this moment Will knew nothing the director didn’t. He needed time to examine the evidence. Jack should know there was nothing axiomatic about any crime scene –  that time was need to arrive at a solid hypothesis. But it was the fact that Jack solicited his help only to parade him like a parlour trick to be performed in front of the team that caught his ire.

“Would you like me to pull a rabbit out of my hat while I’m at it, Jack?” Will asked. A soon as the words left his lips he knew the decision to say this out loud was a mistake.

Before Jack could prove him right, a phosphorescent flash burst across his field of vision. Blinded, he raised a belated arm against the light despite it having already elapsed. Even under the protection of his arm, Gaskell’s body was etched in negative into the pulp of his inner eyelids. The detonation of magnesium powder was a sharp blow to his ears.

When he opened them, the image reverted. Through the haze of grey smoke, beyond the corpse, he saw red curls.

So did Jack.

“Who let her through?” Jack bellowed, the voice of thunder and that which promised lightning. Had this familiar woman not taken their photograph, Will was sure he would’ve been fleeing from this storm himself, brought on by his earlier snark.

“No one did, Detective Crawford. This is a public cemetery after all,” She said as she lowered her portable flash lamp. Her magazine camera rested in the upturned palm of her other hand, braced by her stomach, with its lens still facing the body. She wore a deep red cycling suit that cinched close to her slight waist and high black boots that matched her dainty bone structure.

“You’re expanding the Bureau’s team, I see,” she turned to Will, “My name’s Freddie Lounds, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Ms. Lounds.” As soon as he saw those signature red tresses, he had known, and for the briefest moment he had wished the flash bulb’s combustion had caught them alight. By his tone, he hoped she could tell he wouldn’t be counted amongst her fans.

He knew enough that he found Lounds and her life’s work repulsive. Unfortunately, he couldn’t escape her populist rot. Not even the distance that Wolf Trap afforded could protect him from her particular brand of journalism, if you could call it that. He only read one article, and the salacious tone had caused him to hurl the offending paper into his fireplace. Though the words on those pages incinerated instantly, the topic of her writing remained and found its way into his classroom and into the conversations in parlours he couldn’t avoid. People couldn’t help but gossip about the indecent details Lounds released.

At his rebuke, a prim smile lifted the corners of her mouth, as measured as the pleats of her bloomers. “I see my reputation precedes me again. Would you mind if you all stayed where you are, except for you, Mr.—?”

Will stared at her shoulder until she realized he had no intention of volunteering his name. It did nothing to affect her smile.

She gestured at him with her camera, “May I ask that you look into my lens? I have another plate that I’d like to expose and that would make for a better composition.”

“That you took one is unacceptable, Ms. Lounds,” Jack said. “I’m going to have to confiscate that camera.” He tipped his head towards the approaching officers, having been summoned by his previous exclamation.

“Ah,” she took a step away from the first officer to move towards her, “The people of Baltimore have a right to know what’s going on in their city. You can’t hide this.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, “You’ll find that I have the authority to do much more than that.”

One of the policemen reached out and grabbed her. Freddie looked down at the hand that wrapped around her forearm. Though the officer’s fist eclipsed her arm, Will had to give her credit; her expression held a heated presence that belied her size. “My readers will know regardless of your attempts to obfuscate the truth!”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Jack nodded again at the officers, “Good evening.”

As undaunted as she was about being manhandled away from the grave, there was very little she could do as the policemen escorted her out of the cemetery.

Jack waited until they were near the gates before he spoke again, “Okay, gentlemen – lady – Will needs to work the scene in privacy.”

It was a testament to Jack’s influence that his team dispersed without a word, though Will could feel their eyes sizing him up as they passed by. It didn’t matter. He let their and Lounds’ presence drip off of him, like water off a duck’s back. They were already fading into the background, their existence tapering like the diminishing grind of their footsteps.

Soon, it was just Will and the corpse of Dr. Gaskell, which, like crude oil in the pond, clung to him with ease.

Will took a deep breath and let it crest at the top of his chest for several seconds, feeling the bony fingers of his rib cage unfurl around the hulking lungful. His belly was taut to accommodate the insistent press of air he held before the fingers squeezed. The air escaped loudly at the back of his nose, the sound of the ocean at his lips.

He closed his eyes as he breathed, lengthening the air’s ebb and flow. In the darkness, Will was alone save for the tide of his breath.

In.

Out.

Even that faded, as the pendulum swung incandescent orange once, twice. Each swipe brought back the scene of Gaskell’s final resting place. Time reversed quick and sudden. The lighting changed, Gaskell’s body disappeared, and the grave undisturbed and unspoiled under moonlight. Its soil only exposed because of the recent funeral.

Will looked to the moon, then the grave.

“It’s past midnight. I have waited until the caretaker has left for the evening. Even now, I know I have to work fast lest someone sees me.”

He draped a large piece of cotton on the grass next to the grave. There he planned to shovel the soil, as he intended to keep the area clean.

Under his grip the rough wood of the shovel threatened slivers. The sharp edge of the metal was a thin line of resistance against the sole of his foot as he pressed it into the dirt, but the feel of it was distant through his boot. It didn’t take much effort before the blade was sinking into the earth, as it hadn’t rained since the funeral. The soil was loose and easy to scoop onto the sheet. He dug until a large pile had accumulated.

“I do not tire and I only stop when my shovel hits the coffin.”

He had shovelled a deep square but what was small enough to only expose the part of the coffin that covered the head and shoulders of the corpse inside. From his bag of tools, he pulled a crowbar that fit neatly between the exposed lip of the lid and the rest of the coffin. Using the bulk of the dirt still covering the rest of the coffin as a counterweight, he pushed down on the metal. The lid broke at the line along the limit off the small hole’s wall.

“The rigid death mask of Timothy Gaskell greets me, and I can smell the formaldehyde solution the undertaker used to preserve the body. Its odour suggests the compound is incorrect, and it hasn’t fixed the tissue correctly, just as I had anticipated.”

He grabbed at Gaskell’s lapels and pulled until the doctor was clear of the coffin, shelled like a nut. With barely a grunt, he lifted the body onto the grass.

“I fill the hole with a fastidiousness that suggests I haven’t exhumed a body. Only once the earth I have collected is back where it belongs do I turn to Gaskell. I make short work of his clothing, stripping him with an efficiency that suggests this isn’t the first time I have removed clothing from a corpse.”

Once exposed, a small hole in the abdomen near the navel can be seen. Two more were found on the back.

“The undertaker had used a trocar to aspirate thoracic and abdominal cavities, but this will not spoil my intentions.”

He turned his attention to the man’s chest and chose from his bag a scalpel. The skin parted without blood under the sharp blade, and he cut until he could peel back the skin and reveal the white of rib cage. Exchanging one tool for another, he took up a serrated blade and stabbed the forgiving flesh below the breastplate, piercing the diaphragm. He gritted his teeth when he met resistance but eventually the bone split under his might. It revealed a pair of lungs that were cold with a patina. That they were slimy to the touch further proved the incompetency of the undertaker.

“It is with a hint of capriciousness that I disarticulate the lungs, removing it from its cavity. I am careful to remove it with the trachea and the tongue. When I am done, I move the entire piece to lie on top of the disturbed earth of the grave.”

He stood, bending to unfurl the slab of meat according to his tastes and assure that his composition was balanced. Picking up the body, he rested it to sit atop the tombstone as an angel watching over its charge. He crouched again and pulled a bellows from his bag, the wood of which was a rich, polished mahogany finished with black leather and silver studs. He directed the nozzle of it into the opening of the windpipe. Standing, he finally stepped onto the handles and compressed the leather.

Below, the lungs expanded with a crackling noise. He smiled.

“This is my design.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for you reading. Question, comments, thoughts on dubious history or Murdoch Mysteries are all welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

“Why, exactly, are we watching this?” Brian directed his question to Jimmy even though he meant it for Jack. He wasn't that fearless. He only had so much nerve before a little bit of self-preservation kicked in.

What they were supposed to be doing was examining the body like the scientists they were. Instead, they watched this  _Will Graham_  hover over the body with his eyes closed. Brian had heard about Will over the years through friends of friends of friends and made a piecemeal of the man’s history from whispers and hearsay. It wasn’t easy. There was nothing to be found in the papers, but that didn’t always mean there wasn’t anything to be reported. It only added fuel to the fire of Brian’s thoughts.  What he had heard was the man was notoriously awkward, sullen, and twitchy. It was repeated enough times to realize that it was he who Jack brought with him before their strained introductions. In the past he wasn’t sure about any of the conclusions that could be drawn, but from where he was standing now he thought Jack had been taken for a fool.

If Brian saw that then who knows what men in much higher positions thought. He didn’t need to be told that the BOI faced keen opposition, despite being funded by the Department of Justice. Not, of course, for the bureau’s work categorising and registering criminals. No, that duty was seen as legitimate and beneficial to the country. Their small unit, however, was met with as much misgiving as the whole of investigatory medicine and anatomical study did outside of the halls of the College.

It came to no surprise, though it frustrated Brian beyond belief. Most people weren’t fond of the idea of doctors, like he and Jimmy and Beverly, when they got their hands inside of corpses and considered the parts against the whole. It was a sentiment shared by common folk and the rich alike, but for very different reasons. Priests, senators, and governors wanted to restrict medicine’s work for the morality of it, but they were willing to make concessions as long as it wasn’t one of their neighbours providing a study. The men in high places deemed it acceptable for doctors to explore the body as long as it was the anatomy of the criminal, the impoverished, the men without relations.

It wasn’t the body of a beggar that they had tonight. Not a corpse that could be excused away because nobody cared or mourned for it. This was Dr. Gaskell, a physician celebrated across the city. It was amazing that Jack managed to convince Mrs. Gaskell to allow them this evening at all.

Though it was more pardonable for the poor to be on the dissecting slab, they didn’t want to be on there any more than their richer cousins. Wherever their fortunes lie, people thought that the dead deserved the dignity of a grave far from the curious fingers of an anatomist. There were no answers to be found in the flesh, according to decorum

But that’s where they were wrong. What they did wasn’t desecration. It was science. It was a way of legitimizing medicine from the quacks as much as it was to know the internal structures of the human body. With that kind of knowledge – well, Brian couldn’t even begin to guess a future when they could comprehend and categorise the full biological scope of the human body.

And he might never, depending on how the night went. They couldn’t afford someone like Will Graham ruining what little inroads their efforts had made. Once the public knew this nervous man now loomed over their dissections, the riots would start up again. And they could say _goodbye_ to any legitimacy they had.

When Jack only continued to stare at the back of Will’s head, Brian looked at Jimmy. Then Beverly. Both of them shrugged. They would have heard the same things about Will as he did, and they were probably questioning how many advantages a person like Will gave to their investigation.

The eyes they gave each other seemed to rile Jack into speech.

“He’s helping,” He spoke with a finality that didn’t dare allow the others to question just how Will was supposed to be helping them at all.

Brian huffed and shifted his eyes to the corpse of Gaskell, to the hollow of his chest cavity. What did he know? It wasn’t like they’d ever catch the perpetrator without an eye witness. Might as well let this charlatan take a crack at it.

Jack eyed the way Brian dug the toe of his shoe into the grass, “If you don’t like it you can leave.”

Caught like a child with his arm stuck in the cookie jar, Brian held his palms up, feeling the skin of his forehead contort as his eyebrows raised skywards.  _Who me?_

Finally Will spasmed, as if he had been doused in cold water. One foot stepped back to catch himself from falling outright. Brian could hear him breathing raggedly even from the short distance between them. He watched as Will seemed to fold in on himself and rub at his face.

It was at this time that Jack closed in on Will and spoke soft enough that Brian couldn’t hear the words

* * *

 

With a blink of an eye the dark midnight moon shifted to the cooling dusk of evening. For a moment, when time flickered, he stood before his work a man swollen with pride. Then time set itself right and the clock ticked forward to the present. He was here. All that was left was Will,  _Will Graham_ , and he was staring at the dead body of a colleague. The quiet swell of satisfaction leaked out of from him in a geyser at the sight. His body was left distorted from where the traces of smug delight had pressed at his flesh. The foreign feelings had moved and stretched him in directions unknown, and his skin was left sagging loose over a part missing.

The shift was disorienting, painful almost, and for a brief moment he yearned for the loss. It was a physical ache, like something as dear to him as a limb had vanished. He shook himself and rubbed at his face to dispel some of the confusion. He had all ten fingers and all ten toes. His skin was hot under his hands chilled by the cool air.

It wasn’t  _his_  pride, it wasn’t  _his_ gratification. He didn’t stand before  _his_  work. He needed to remember that. What he had returned to was his normal sense of self, not a lack.

Before him the corpse of Timothy Gaskell remained the same. Still, quiet, and sad, unchanged over the hours since his disinterment save for the slight deterioration of tissue the failed embalmment allowed. If only someone pumped the bellows, his lungs would once again expand and crackle. It would be a wretched thing attempting to prolong life where it wouldn’t be had. No carbon dioxide to convert in to oxygen, no blood to oxygenate, and no organs to soak in nutrient rich blood. A useless piece of meat yet bound to its task by the presence of the bellows. It could escape it no more than Gaskell could escape death.

He jumped at the hand that dropped on his shoulder. Jack leaned in close, “What can you tell me?”

Will shrugged under the weight of the hand. He stepped out from underneath it, unthinkingly taking another step towards the body. He began to polish his glasses to avoid looking at the bellows.

“Probably nothing you don’t already know.”

Jack lifted his chin. A challenge, “Humour me.”

Will huffed, not knowing why he expected anything different. He came out here under Jack’s behest to help him. He wasn’t just going to be able to walk away without a word. He pinched his nose when the pain in his head spiked. His head didn’t appreciate his presence in the cemetery any more than Jack’s man did. Setting his jumbled thoughts in order resembled a form of mental calisthenics that left him feeling tired. Though it was only dusk, he longed for his bed.

“Well, he’s a gentleman with surgical training and an exceptional understanding of human anatomy, judging by the way he’s disarticulated the respiratory system.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Jack nod. Anyone with eyes would know that, “No butcher’s done this.”

“No,” Will agreed, “Not in technique. But… he views Gaskell very similarly as one would an animal. He’s removed from the man. He sees himself better – or Gaskell lesser – or some combination of the both. Enough to feel no remorse or moral dilemma with the fact that he’s deterred and desecrated the grave and the body. It’s a job that had to be done.”

“Is this a compulsion or duty, some sort of revenge-inspired prank?”

Will hummed as he worried the hangnail at his thumb. Neither felt quite right to Will, without there being a particular reason. It just didn’t seem to suit the shadow that he had draped over himself as he recreated the crime. The dark smudge now clung to the corners of his mind, watching, appraising, and assuring him that Jack was  _wrong_. “Does this feel like a prank to you, Jack? Cause I’m not laughing.”

“No it does not,” Jack’s voice was steel as he looked at the body before him. He squatted beside the grave, “Not at all.”

For a beat Will remained standing, hovering over Jack before he was taken by impulse, and he was next to him, knees stuck into the grass. He could feel the cool moisture leach into the wool of his pants. He struck a hand forward and touched the mahogany handle of the bellows, and it was soft and smooth under his fingers. Polished to a gloss. He had to blink. These were his hands. All ten fingers. But it wasn’t his bellows.

“Has anyone done this yet?” Will asked. Without waiting for an answer he gripped the bellows in both hands and depressed the handles. The lungs ballooned with a wet crackle, the flesh distended in some places and hardened, unmoving, in others, frozen from the embalming fluid. It looked like the lungs were bloated with pulsating growths.

“Hey!” Brian shouted, arriving just as the air leaked out of the lungs with a sad wheeze. He rounded the grave and was followed shortly by Jimmy and Beverly. “We weren’t planning on touching anything until--”

“Until what? You solved the case?” Will asked, eyes for the first time flickering towards Brian’s and landing just short at his nose. “That might be a while yet. The man who did this didn’t plan on getting caught.”

Beverly squatted and looked close at the meat of the lungs, “Our plan was to preserve the scene for as long as possible as we examined the organs.” She was trying to support her friend, but the curiosity dripped off to form puddles as deep as the pools of fabric from her skirt. She had been dying to do that herself.

He admired their commitment to order but it would have no benefits here.

Will depressed the handles again. “Don’t you feel like your back in school, front row centre? Our lecturers gone missing, but we can still see the lesson for ourselves. This is a study. Albeit a useless one, considering the quality of the flesh. I mean, it has to be. The bellows demonstrates the mechanics of the lungs. Why else—,” The thought clicked into place. Will began to laugh at the realisation, the sound ugly with comprehension.

Jack turned to appraise him, and the others lifted their eyes from the lungs to stare at Will incredulously.

"Gaskell talked a lot of hot air.”

“You think Gaskell’s been turned out and been made a mockery because someone thought he was full of shit?” Jack asked.

Will shrugged, “It’s not what I think, Jack. I’m just telling you what I see.”

“And what do you see?”

Will considered the question, directing his gaze back towards the folded body atop the tombstone, “I see someone who’s bored.”

It was a refreshing thought for a man who spent most of his life avoiding the draw of others and ran away to Wolf Trap in order to avoid surrendering himself to them. 

Must be nice, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I adore your comments and kudos.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a wee chapter to get the ball rolling. I'm sorry for the length, and I swear Hannibal will make his debut soon!

By the time he escaped Jack and his team the sun had already sunk well below the horizon. Night had finally descended and the moon shone brightly – a familiar face in the sky. His witness. No. that wasn't right. It was never _his_. As he left the gated cemetery, he refused Jack’s passive offer for a ride back, opting to walk in an attempt to expel some of the restless energy buzzing under his skin. It took longer than expected. His back was buffeted by a bitter wind the entire way, and the strong breeze chased away the residual warmth of the afternoon sun. The woollen weave of his clothing did nothing to keep the chill out. It settled deep into his bones and he shook with it when he pressed through the front doors of the boarding house.

Whiskey. He needed a glass of it. Or two. Or more, depending on how many it took to quell the shake of his hands. To blur the crisp details of Gaskell's body. To dispel the phantom touch of a mind separate from his own. He balled his hands into fists hard enough to strain the muscles up to his forearm. 

He took the steps to his room two at a time. He fumbled with the key to his door for a moment before he burst through. The room was small and musty – the unfamiliar scent of a well-used lodging. Tiny when compared to the space that he had in Wolf Trap, his modest home palatial to the neat and contained accommodations. Large enough, however, to fit a single bed in a metal frame, a desk, an upright cupboard, a wash basin, and a writing desk. His trunk full of belongings neatly folded and packed away sat at the foot of the bed. Keeping his coat on, he forewent lighting the his lamp. He had no need for it. The moon shone brightly enough through the single window, and he immediately found the glinting glass of the liquor bottle on his desk. There was no hesitation as he poured.

“Damn!” He spilled some of it on his papers. He swiped a finger through it, which only proved to spread the mess and smear the ink of his notes. A lost cause, he thought as he shot back what he did manage to pour into his glass. Just paper, letters.

Wiping his fingers against his coat, he poured another glass, this time three fingers full, and carried it to bed. He toed off his shoes and wriggled out of his frock, careful of the whiskey, before sinking into the mattress. There he lied, boneless and shivering, holding his glass against his sternum. He felt as turned out as Gaskell had been. A strange hollow feeling in the middle of his chest. It did nothing to hinder his ability to breathe; the sound of his respiration was loud in the quiet room. The amber liquid in the glass swayed with his breath. He timed his inhalations with the image of Gaskell’s post-mortem breathing apparatus as it worked in his memory. His lungs expanded with the stale air of the bellows; his windpipe burned with distention. But it was nothing compared to the pressing mass of satisfaction in his belly. A swollen bog of it simmered below the cavern of his chest.

Will’s eyes swept over the meagre room, catching the mute lines of the furniture in the soft light. The corner was untouched by moonlight, and the complete dearth of light attracted his eye. Darkness clung to the walls and the ceiling above them. It pulsated with a measured rhythm, slow and steady, like a living, breathing thing. If he squinted he could make out the silhouette of a head and shoulders staring right back. It could be a trick, his brain and eyes working together to find meaning in the void.

Or not.

He raised his glass towards the corner and toasted to Nietzsche. As an afterthought he drank to Gaskell, the poor bastard. Or more like poor Mrs. Gaskell – Timothy had nothing to worry now that he was dead. It was curious that he had prepared nothing in life to prevent something such as this from happening. A man in Gaskell’s position usually invested in a mortsafe, yet there was nothing protecting his grave.  That and the improper embalmment suggested money trouble despite being unlikely on such an established doctor’s salary. The … criminal? deviant? doctor? who was responsible for this insult had to have anticipated this or his entire operation would have been impossible. Someone close enough to be aware of the Gaskell’s money troubles.

Thinking back to the look of his sallow skin and rosy pink lungs, a shudder ripped through his body, separate from the chill. He might as well drink to the never ending night as well. He was tired and achey and more than ready for sleep. He shot back the whiskey, and the hot burn of it trickled down his gullet. It did something to counteract the empty feeling in his chest as it lit up a searing track from his mouth to stomach. With another mouthful he may achieve some form of balance – or as close to that as his body was able.

A grimace pulled at his mouth, and he rubbed at his lips to ease the tension. The libation wasn’t in respect of the dead. It felt more like recognition of the darkness that had trailed his every step out of the cemetery, slithered up the stairs, slipped through the door behind him, and now took silent residence in the small pocket of his room’s corner. With this acknowledgement came the feeling of being watched with a calm and deliberate eye.

I see you just as you see me, it seemed to say.

Morning came early and found Will in his clothes, still on top of the sheets. He pulled himself into a sitting position, feeling clammy in his sweat soaked and wrinkled shirt. He blinked away the grit at his eyes and looked at his side table. The bottle of whiskey was next to his empty glass, where a small droplet of the alcohol had dried and hardened into a dark brown syrup at the bottom. He could see through the green glass that there was significantly less whiskey in the bottle this morning. Will yawned, feeling as though the night came and went in minutes for all the sleep he got. That and his nightcap would explain the burning thing that was his stomach and the ache in his head, the blood pounding so hard his vision shook with it. It was an audible knock against his eyes.

“Mr. Graham?” A voice at the door. A woman – the housekeeper, Mrs. Hopkins – Will’s brain provided slowly filling in the details in places left empty by the dissipating fog of sleep. It wasn’t his pulse but the measured knock of her fist against the door. “Mr. Graham, you have a visitor.”

When he finally came downstairs, washed and in a new shirt, he found Jack standing in the foyer, watching him descend the stairs with a hard stare – not quite apologetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will's cheers to Nietzsche is cannon compliant. Beyond Good and Evil (wherein you can find the famous quotation, "When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you") was published in 1886. It fits, time-wise, even if it's just a dark corner and Will's being his usual creep self.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As usual, you comments & kudos are appreciated and loved.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for anyone who was interested in this story.... last year?? This one was a long time coming. Thanks for stopping by :)

“Jack,” Will said as he stepped out on the main floor, “I don’t suppose you’re here to join me for breakfast.”  
  
“He’d have to pay extra,” Mrs. Hopkins said from the doorway. Both men turned to find her watching them with a pinched look, suspicion darkening her eye for a brief moment as she took in Jack's figure. Without waiting for an answer, she left, skirt rustling as she moved towards the kitchens.

Jack didn't immediately fill the silence followed by her exit. Instead, he looked towards the hardwood floor as if to steel himself. Those few seconds told Will everything he need to know. He scoffed. This was no friendly visit. At least Jack looked apologetic about it.

“I won’t lie to you, Will," Jack said as he looked up from the flooring.   
  
Will shook his head minutely, “No, Jack. No, I promised you one evening, and you’ve had your one evening. All’s fair and square.” He did more than his fair share, and there was no reason he should revisit the previous' evening for a man he barely knew.   
  
Jack nodded, “And normally I would respect that but. But this time it’s different.”

Will rolled his eyes. He's heard this one before. “And so would the time after, and the time after that.”  
  
“It’s not just Gaskell. There’s been another...” Jack took a breath, casting a sideways glance towards the doorway. He considered his words carefully while watching for an errant housekeeper listening in. Will found himself drawing closer and bending his head near to Jack, catching the words cast in a low voice — not quite a whisper, “The display didn’t involve disinterment.”  
  
“Another one?” Will straightened with surprise. He had thought Jack was here to pick his brain on the previous evening’s activities. Hell, with a display like Gaskell’s, by all rights it should have been why Jack came calling so early in the morning. He shivered from the slight thrill of the unanswered question. To think that whoever had their way with Gaskell's corpse wasn’t finished astounded him. What more could he have to say? And with whom?  
  
“And who is it this time?”  
  
A small crease appeared between Jack’s brows and he came close to shrugging, “That’s a question we haven’t yet answered.”  
  
“You don’t know the victim,” Will trailed off — diverted momentarily by the seeming break in pattern. He had trouble finding a connection — his thoughts sluggish after his poor sleep. It was as though the space between his ears was stuffed with cotton, dampening not just sounds but thoughts as well. Without a name attached to the latest display, his imagination failed to conjure up another body. His mind was determined to dwell on Gaskell. The spectacle shrouded in the shadows of his memory. A single spotlight illuminated the lungs. 

He blinked to see the concern radiating as clear as an aura around Jack. What could concern Jack and the BOI?  
  
“Victims,” Jack clarified, “You’ll have to follow me to find out more.”  
  
He stared at Jack. His face slowly faded as Will returned to his vision and recalled the sense of satisfaction from looking down upon Gaskell's innards. The exhilaration when he pressed down on the bellowes and heard it wheeze. And now the morbid curiosity of wanting to know what other heinous crime could be committed in less than twenty four hours and for what purpose. But perhaps what pulled Will with the greatest strength — as much as it were yanking on his coattails — was the notion that Jack came to him for help. That without Will his team may never know the answers to these questions. Answers that Will might just be able to find, as long as he went wherever Jack required.   
  
Damn his curiosity.  
  
“Let me inform Mrs. Hopkins I won’t be here for breakfast.” He said, even as his stomach churned in protest.

 

 

They escaped the first touches of the early dawn by entering the College Building and walked the halls until they reached the only staircase leading to the basement laboratories. Will had little time to reflect on what awaited him in the belly of the building. They descended the steps quickly, each step an oesophageal ridge, the angled walls forming constricting muscles that directed him towards the gleaming tile of the floor below, the level's innards on full display.

The shiny tiles were unlike his small house back in Wolf Trap, which had a basement with dirt floors. He used it primarily as a cold storage for root vegetables and cured treats for the dogs. The air was cold and damp down there. The air in the College Building was humid, too, but for entirely different reasons. While his basement was kept cool by the earth, the underground laboratories trapped the heat created by lamps.

The three doctors were waiting for them. Once again Brian, Jimmy, and Beverly greeted their arrival. The smoke spooling from their cigarettes refracted the lamp light and muted some of the sharpness of their equipment. As soon as they realized they had company, they stubbed out their cigarettes.

It was a detail Will barely considered. Before them, their examining table brandished four arms — similar only in that they were all different.  One was fat and doughy. Another was hollow and knobby. The fat and skeletal forearms acted as bookends to the other two that landed somewhere between both extremes. Each was cleaved precisely two inches above the elbow and dismembered from the shoulder and upper arm.  The palms rested upwards with fingers curled as if in gentle invitation. The grey, waxy skin of the arms was split laterally in a way that exposed the wet flesh underneath. Forceps held the skin apart.

Will took a step closer. If he was correct, the forceps also separated the larger nerves from the others. As he took in the thin, silver forceps jutting up from the flesh, Will thought it was almost delicate.

“As you can see, we’re all right today,” Jimmy announced with a wry lilt to his voice.

“What Jimmy is trying to say is,” Brian hovered a tempering hand over his friend and shot an apologetic look to Jack, “we have four right arms from — you guessed it — four different people.”

Beverly rounded the table and stood next to Will, “And by people, Brian specifically means men. Probably in their 50s or older.”

Will rubbed a hand over his face, fingers chasing the last of the sleep from his eyes. Their enthusiasm was a surprising addition to his morning, and he felt it like a forceful punch to the temple. The whole left side of his face was almost numb with it. 

“You know for a fact they weren’t exhumed?” Will asked as he tried to rub away the pressure. 

Beverly shook her head and spoke for Jack, “No embalming fluid. Not even an attempt at basic preservation. Judging by the rate of decomposition, I’d say it was straight from the butcher’s block.”

Will had a brief flash of a faceless butcher before a wooden table, white apron stained red and cleaver gleaming in the lights. Nausea bloomed in the after image. The foetid smell of the lab didn’t help as it clung to his nose hairs. Beverly quirked an eyebrow, noticing his discomfort, but he shook his head for reasons beyond his body's reaction. She was wrong. This was not the work of a tradesman. These chops were from an entirely different kind of swine.

Jack cleared his throat, “Any idea who these men were? Or where the rest of them are?”

Brian shook his head, “So far no. No one we can tell is listed as missing, but if these are as fresh as we think they are, these men might not even be considered missing yet. As for where the rest of them are, we don’t know. The arms were waiting for us outside the anatomical theatre’s door.”

Waiting, indeed. If it was the same individual, then he already knew the professionals investigating the case. But why deliver such a gift when it could only give them more evidence? He could have been caught dropping his parcel off. The move suggested confidence. Showmanship. But there was another unique flavour to this performance that Will could only taste but not name.

“What about method of dissection?”

“Textbook. It’s one of the cleanest flexor dissections I’ve ever seen,” Jimmy said, pointing to the length of one of the arms. “Whoever did it knows how to remove the skin without damaging the superficial veins. The fascia is practically nonexistent, which isn’t easy to do. All of the major cutaneous nerves are exposed flawlessly, as you can see with these forceps. I’m genuinely impressed. See here? All five superficial flexors can be mobilised. The ulnar nerve, artery, and —”

“We get it,” Jack interrupted, “What we don’t have is the why. How do we know for certain this isn’t a prank?”

Jack of course referenced anatomy student's penchant for using cadavers as props in elaborate pranks. Anatomists in training thought nothing of stealing a body already robbed of its grave. Will always heard these stories from a friend-of-a-friend, so there was no real proof of their tricks. Rumour had it one unsuspecting student woke up to a body in his bed after a particularly raucous evening the night before. His classmates took advantage of his unconscious state to sneak in the cadaver as he slept. 

The three doctors looked between themselves, uncomfortable. Brian and Jimmy seemed like the type to go too far with a joke, but Will wasn’t sure about Beverly.

“Who’s laughing?” Will asked, “It certainly shows off the skills of whoever did it, but it lacks the payoff of most medical students’ pranks. Why leave four arms outside of the theatre when you could leave an entire cadaver in your classmate’s bed? Or position a body in a compromising position before class?”

Jack nodded. “We’re still going to have to canvass the medical community," he said.

Someone else murmured in assent, their tone low and bland. It could have been Brian, or maybe it was Jimmy, but Will wasn't listening.

His aching head took precedence. Only the skin stretched across his skull was numb. Underneath the fragile bone of his temple, his brain pulsed in complaint. He felt pressurised and ready to blow. He blinked in an attempt to release some of the tension. He opened them and stared at the arms. As his sight lost focus, he had to concede Jimmy had a point. It was clear that whoever worked on those arms was meticulous and delicate in their work, a quality he shared with whoever exhumed Dr. Gaskell. Jack was most likely correct in thinking these instances were linked.

They certainly inspired the same sense of lack. He should be disgusted but, just like the bellows, these arms failed to horrify Will. The work that went into the dissection was like any other anatomy lesson he sat in on.

No, that wasn’t right. It was more. It was the work of someone trying to elevate the human body into something superior. A sculpture who, with broad strokes, cleared away the rubbish. Who carved away at skin and fascia until just the perfect form remained. It was as if Michelangelo raised it from a plain slab of marble. Blurry though the work may be as Will stared sightless, they were still a thing of beauty in a way. Something you wanted to look at, study, and absorb. And whoever left these bodies wanted his work admired by colleagues. He left it right at his fellow medical professionals' door. 

The silver of the forceps gleamed under the electric lights wired in the basement — just another luxury afforded by the College Building. It sparkled, momentarily dazzling Will as he followed the light radiate and sway.

He blinked.

No dead flesh should sway.

He blinked again, and the arms continued to move.

No wind blew at those tools, nor did his colleagues manipulate the flesh. It was no trick played by the halo of lights. They moved on their own, Will realised with mounting horror. In silence he stared as the fingers of a single palm curled in an undulating wave, beckoning him closer.

He swallowed and looked to the others. Jack and his crew kept talking, oblivious to the way one forearm showed life. He swallowed and turned back to the finger. It beckoned him closer; the show was for him alone. He took a step closer, despite the sudden flare at his temple — hand nearly slapping the skin there to stop the sharp, internal stab from piercing through his skull. The slit showed fibres and muscles twitching with the unnatural movement, and the forceps swayed from the contractions, alive in the way they shouldn't.

“Will?”

He startled, breaking his gaze to find Beverly staring at him. Jack, Jimmy, and Brian were at the other side of the room looking at papers spread across as desk. He let his hand drop to his side.

"Are you well?" she asked. She tracked his gaze to the examination table. When she turned back calmly, Will realized the hand was frozen. Still, dead flesh again.

It was only in trying to speak that he realised how fast his heart was beating. Its strong thump against his ribs made him feel anaemic.

“Hmm,” he cleared his throat, finding the words, “Yeah, yes… Why, uh, do you ask?”

“You look pale. I'm afraid you’re about to fall over. Have you eaten today?”

His stomach crammed in reminder that he skipped breakfast and dinner the previous night consisted of whiskey. It was a counterpoint to the throb at his temples, worse after his reverie. Or whatever that was. A twist of the imagination after too little food and not enough sleep, he tried to convince himself. 

“I’m fine,” he said. Belatedly he thought he should make a show of thanking her, but he thought better of it. She was the one taking liberties commenting about his complexion. 

Beverly studied his face for a moment longer. Whatever she saw must have appeased her. “I’ve heard about your lecture series on the systemisation of the fingerprint. It has Jimmy excited. There’s more talk than usual about the whorls he finds on the prints we leave behind. I think he might ask Jack to implement your techniques at the BOI.”

“Buenos Aires is already making headway in that regard. Better make it fast if you want to be the face of innovation," Will tried to joke, glad for her attempt at conversation.

She smiled, and he couldn’t help but return it.

“Did you check for fingerprints?” He nodded at the forceps.

She nodded, “First thing Jimmy did. They were clean. Not that we have anything to compare them to.”

That was unsurprising. For one thing, there was no database of fingerprints yet, and Will knew its existence was a far way off. For another, the killer was as fastidious in all that he did from grave robbing to anatomy lesson. There was no way he would leave something as base as his fingerprints behind. Will was certain whoever did this knew well enough to eliminate this new evidence from his work. With gloves, the thought came just as he realised he let their short conversation died.

Beverly narrowed her eyes and said, “Look, if you’re unwell, you really shouldn’t be down in these labs. Go home and get some rest.”

She smiled briefly again, this time curtly, before moving towards the others. He felt her departure like a vacuum. He knew he failed whatever test that was. In her absence, he was filled by sudden dread. He squinted at the lamps to see if the light would shine through his eyelashes in a way that could pantomime the curl of a finger. He didn’t know how to feel when it failed to recreate the sense of movement. 

He swept at a single bead of sweat that dripped at his temple. He shivered and thought of his basement back in Wolf Trap. His dogs had the habit of digging into the packed earth. He would always know when they snuck down the steps because their claws would be clumped with dirt.

He moved towards the others, swallowing his longing for home because home was a long train ride away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anatomical students did steal cadavers for pranks around campus/town. There are many reports of these doctors playing with the bodies, or, as mentioned in this story, leaving them around in unsuspecting places to scare their friends.
> 
> No, I'm not crazy for including fingerprinting. The late 1800s and early 1900s saw the birth of modern forensic science, and many professionals wanted to create a way of identifying and classifying criminals around this time. While things like phrenology craniometry (more on these in later chapters) were eventually debunked, fingerprinting remained. Will makes mention of Buenos Aires because Fingerprinting (or Dactyloscopy) was pioneered there by Juan Vucetich in 1891


End file.
